The Thread That Runs So True
by Rose and Psyche
Summary: This is a story of beautiful damsels and handsome knights, high adventure and fiery steeds. Ships sail and storms rage, and beneath the mountain, monsters waken. If you think you can stand the terror, bare the excitement and hold your sides against the laughter than click on the above link. If not, keep looking. Bookverse. Canon.
1. How It Came About

How it Came About

* * *

_The wise man does not expose himself needlessly to danger, since there are few things for which he cares sufficiently; but he is willing, in great crises, to give even his life - knowing that under certain conditions it is not worth-while to live._

~ Aristotle

* * *

This is a story of the Golden Age; that time when the very air seemed gilded with happiness and the waves ran silver up the beach below Cair Paravel. The time does not matter; it is only a story and like every good story, it ought to stand on its own merits. This is most immediately a tale, which is best told at night by a great fire, under the great black beams of an aging roof. It is a tale of adventure and danger and the spirit under the mountain and the monster beneath the city and the thread that bound them together. Not a literal thread, but the thread of fate…or destiny.

Many people now-a-days think they can change their destiny…but destiny is something that happens whether you want it to or not and there's no changing it. This is not a story of knights in suits of armor (armor doesn't even appear) or beautiful horses (though there is at least one) or damsels in distress (they help themselves, all right), but of friendship and how it can make bonds of steel when forged in a fire of happenstance and unfortunate coincidences.

If Peter ever regretted that summer morning when he was suddenly seized with the lust to wander, we'll never know, but what he thought and what befell are two entirely different creatures. After all, some stories are true that never happened.

* * *

The only sounds were the soft jangling of the harness that lay over the horse's smooth golden hide and the gentle sound of the horse's footfalls on the forest floor. The aspen leaves were gold that year, fluttering in the unseen wind that blew inland from the sea.

Unconsciously, Peter eased back in the saddle, the reins tightening against the horse's neck as the bank, softened by the last rain, gave way under them. The stream splashed as the horse stumbled and regained his balance, snorting in the quiet, his iron shoes ringing on the stream smoothed stones and flashing in the thread of sunlight that gleamed between the trees.

As he regained the other bank, Peter sat deeper in the saddle and the horse unconsciously came to a halt, his velvet neck arching under Peter's hand. They stood in silence for some time, Peter watching the opposite bank of the stream keenly, his ears tuned for sounds coming from the woods.

He was being followed; he had been for some time…two days at least, though he had only been aware of it for one. Abruptly, he whistled like a meadow lark and a tall, gray coated hound leapt to his feet and bounded though the trees to fall in beside the horse. Peter leaned down from the saddle to ruffle the dog's long ears, then touched heel to the horse's flank.

His pursuer was alone, Peter was fairly sure of that now. He had tried twice to circle around him and catch him unawares, but both times the elusive follower had slipped away. Peter had not yet sighted him, though he had come close.

Peter glanced over his shoulder again, then, with a soft word, urged the horse into a swinging trot. If he could not lose his pursuer by cunning, then he would surely outrun him.

These woods were not a place to ride alone. He was north; quite far north, not quite to the River Shribble, but he expected to sight it soon. This was not the Narnia he was used to; it was a great, lonely place, more full of emptiness than anywhere he had yet been. The land was higher here, but the ravines were deeper, plunging down into rushing, ice cold streams, running silver over small waterfalls.

It was a wild, rugged country, untamed and harsh, full of danger and full of beauty. He had never been to a more breathtaking place and he understood from the few travelers that he had encountered that Ettinsmoor itself was even more wild and untamed than this, rearing like a shaggy, snorting stallion beside the sea.

The day wore on and Peter dismounted and ran beside the horse to rest it without slackening their pace. Only when gold gleamed though the moss grown trunks of the ancient trees did he dare to stop. Standing in the silence, he heard nothing but the breathing of the horse and the steady panting of the dog. But to make doubly sure, he left the horse standing where it was and slipped back through the trees, scouting in a great circle around his position. He found nothing.

He dared not light a fire that night and hardly dared to sleep. After he rubbed down the horse and fed the dog, he wrapped himself in his cloak and sat at the foot of the tree, his hand resting on the cold hilt of his sword.

~o*o~

Before the light had even touched the morning sky, Peter had saddled the horse and continued on his way, eating his breakfast as he rode. He had snared a rabbit the morning before, but the scant leftovers were small reword for a man who had been riding hard for several days.

The saddle leather creaked softly to the rhythm of the horse and Peter stood in the stirrups to take his weight off the horse's withers. The dog danced along beside him in effortless bounds, tongue flinging in the cool air. Peter watched him occasionally, but the dog was a sight hound, not a scent hound and was unlikely to catch the scent of an unseen follower.

It was Peter who noticed him again, not the dog. He swung the horse around and sat listening as the footfalls of another horse suddenly ceased, somewhere in the forest beyond him. He sat in silence for some time; waiting for he knew not what, but waiting all the same. At last, he wheeled the horse and kept on steadily into the forest. They skidded down the bank of another stream and the horse splashed down it for some distance before Peter turned him back up the bank he had just left. He was going back now, trying for the third time to circle around his pursuer.

There was silence in the dappled woods, the sun-splashed moss underfoot soft under the horse's hooves. Peter peered deeply into the shadows, holding the horse down to a walk as he rode in a great circle, weaving through the trees. The dog danced after, tail wagging, still giving no sign that he recognized danger. Peter glanced down at him oddly; surly by this time the dog should have alerted.

Then he saw the shadow of the horseman. Not the horseman himself, only his shadow, slipping mist-like through the distant trees. It was Peter's first sighting and it wasn't a very good one. The only thing he noticed in the glimpse was the easy, graceful way the man sat his horse.

Then he lost him again. He had completed his circle and was back at the banks of the stream, standing in his stirrups and staring into the woods again. At last he shrugged and sent the horse across the stream and up the other bank. He had wasted a quarter of an hour for nothing.

He tried again to lose the other rider by out pacing him and for an hour he thought he had succeeded, but then, he heard the faint and steady rhythm of the other horse.

There was nothing for it, he thought, and when he reached a small gully he swung the horse around and halted under the shadow of a giant oak. The other rider would be upon him before he could see him here and Peter would have the upper hand.

Gently, he loosened his sword in its sheath.

* * *

To be continued...

* * *

**Authors' Note:**

Here we are again! It's been a long time since we've posted anything and we've started missing all you wonderful readers. Hope you are all healthy, wealthy and wise. We can't say we're any of those. :P At least the snow has finally melted (hopefully it won't come back) and we can finally start practicing archery again (no, it has nothing to do with Catnip Evergreen, or whatever her name is).

This new story was initiated while reading Greek mythology two years ago. You'll see several Greek themes, incorporated with Scottish folklore, wrapped up in a partially Scandinavian setting…We'll be interested to know if you recognize any of the people, places or tales as the story progresses.

Those of you who have been reading our blog (have any of you been reading our blog?) will know that one of our original stories has made it to the quarter-finals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. You can find more information on our profile.

~Rose and Psyche

**The Production Note:** is back! We were able to track it down on Dancing with the Stars and we've been able to sign it for another production.


	2. Loyalty

Loyalty

* * *

_Solitude sometimes is best society. _

~ John Milton

* * *

Peter heard the snorting of the other horse.

The rider had stopped just out of sight at the edge of the gully. Peter was fairly certain that he did not know he was there, but had only pulled up because of some uncanny instinct. They stayed for some time like that, Peter listening to the jangling of harness as his pursuer's horse rubbed its head against its knee and stamped the ground.

The silence would have gone on for some time if the dog had not barked. Peter closed his eyes in agony and gave a peculiar whistle. The dog dropped down on its belly and glanced up apologetically, his tail tapping the leaves that lined the gully.

The damage was already done. The other horseman now knew where he was and Peter listened closely as the rider leaned back in the saddle and urged his horse forward. He heard the labored breathing as the horse slid down the bank, going down to its knees, then stumbling forward again, the ground slipping under its hooves.

Then they came into sight at the bottom of the gully. The man was tall and the horse was chestnut, gleaming like burnished gold in the faded sunlight that dripped between the dense leaves above them.

Peter's hand left the hilt of his sword as the horseman approached, giving an old salute in the style of the navy, one fist to his forehead.

"So it's you," Peter said, sinking back in the saddle. Beneath him, his horse shifted, cocking a hind leg. "Of all the cheek."

"Cheek?" Edmund asked, one eyebrow raised. "I would say it's you with the cheek. What were you thinking going off like that without telling me? Of course I had to follow you."

Peter grunted, "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd want to come along."

"Well, of course," Edmund rolled his eyes. "And I think it was jolly poor sport of you not to let me come along from the beginning. Trailing you is no easy task. Three times you almost had me; three times I lost your trail and thought I would not find it again. You're getting better, brother of mine."

"Well, so are you," Peter said, throwing back his head and laughing. "Whenever I thought I'd lost you, there you were again. And you kept slipping out of my grasp every time I tried to capture you. It was a fine time we've had; I enjoyed it."

"I'm glad somebody did," Edmund said dryly.

"Don't be difficult," Peter said, leaning over to slap him on the shoulder. "You enjoyed it, too, admit it."

"Well…yes," Edmund smiled for the first time, his blue eyes shining. "I have to say I did."

~o*o~

"Which hound is this?" Edmund asked, scuffing the dog's ears.

They had made camp under an overhanging ledge, up the bank from a stream. The place seemed to be laced with water. Peter had lit a fire and as the night closed in around them, the dog's eyes gleamed in the firelight and the horses stood, their heads lowered as they ate from their nosebags.

"That's Archie," Peter said, the dog's ears pricking up at the sound of his master's voice speaking his name. "He's one of the younger ones. I'm ashamed of you, Ed, he recognized you, but you don't recognize him."

"You know I don't like dogs," Edmund complained.

"It's rather too bad," Peter said.

"I'd like them better if they smelled better," Edmund said. "Or," he added, rubbing his hand distastefully on his cloak, "If they didn't drool."

"You don't smell bad, do you lad?" Peter laughed, leaning over to fondle Archie's ears. "Hawks don't smell much better," he added, looking up at Edmund, one eyebrow quirked.

"They don't drool," Edmund pointed out.

Peter grinned.

"What are you doing, anyway? You and your menagerie." Edmund was turning a wild duck on a spit. He had shot it a few hours before, in a clearing.

"It's cold here, too," he added a few seconds later.

"I'm out on a hunting trip," Peter said casually, watching his brother closely as he drew a damp shaft of wood through an arrow shaper. He had brought a bag of arrowheads with him and a bundle of rough cedar shafts, and had been making arrows every night to pass the time, fletching them with the feathers of birds he shot for dinner and finishing them with linseed oil. The duck's feathers gleamed iridescent in the firelight, already trimmed and bound to the shaft of a finished arrow that stuck upright in ground next to him.

"You didn't bring a pack horse." Edmund pointed out.

"No, I didn't." Peter agreed, neatly splicing an arrowhead to the shaft he was working on.

There was silence.

"For Pete's sake, Pete!" Edmund exclaimed. "Just tell me what you're up to!"

"You have a bad habit of using that expression," Peter said absently.

"You have a bad habit of making me use it," Edmund said grimly. "Just spit it out, Pete, I'm not a dunce. I know you're not on a hunting trip, even if you don't."

"You won't go back to Cair Paravel?" Peter asked hopefully.

"Are you out of your mind?" Edmund exclaimed.

"I'm getting there."

"No, I'm not going back." Edmund said. "And if you decide not to let me come along, I'll follow you and you won't be able to shake me off."

"I was afraid of that," Peter said with a grin.

There was more silence.

"Peter," Edmund said levelly, "You are in danger of having your block knocked off."

"If you knock my block off, you'll never know what I'm up to."

"Ah!" Edmund said. "Then you _are _up to something."

"I am."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"You are pleasantly in suspense," Peter said. "I hardly ever get you there and I'm enjoying it."

Edmund stared at him coldly for a moment and Peter looked up from his arrow fashioning, his eyes twinkling. Edmund found he had to laugh.

"Come on, Pete," Edmund said at last. "Let's have it. Be a sport."

For a few seconds, Peter did not answer; he was twirling his half-finished arrow, a piece of shark's skin in his hand as he sighted down the shaft, watching for imperfections. Few arrows flew straighter than Peter's and Susan herself never used any but his.

"Have you heard of the Norden?"

Edmund started and realized that he had fallen asleep, staring into the fire, one hand resting on the thin, lean head of the wolfhound.

"No," he said, stretching an arm. "What is it?"

"I hadn't heard the word before a fortnight ago," Peter admitted. "The Norden are the inhabitants of the Seven Isles."

"Are they, now?"

"The Seven Isles are small, as you know, and incapable of supporting themselves with farming. I've learned that every year they sail up the coast of Ettinsmoor and loot and pillage. They're fairly formidable, sailing about in their longboats."

"And?"

"Ettinsmoor is our territory," Peter said. "So I'm riding up to have a look around. We might be able to aid them with a military intervention."

Edmund digested this information for some time, then looked up, "Why did you not tell anyone?"

"It's raiding season," Peter said. "Danger is unavoidable and Paravel has been rather tame this year. This sort of thing is always bound to upset Susan, so I said I was off hunting, which is quite true. I told Lucy where I was going. She asked to come with me."

"You…_told _Lucy?" Edmund was incredulous. "But you didn't bother to tell _me_?"

"I knew you'd want to come along and I wouldn't be able to stop you as easily as I did her," Peter said, he glanced up. "It's bound to be dangerous, Edmund. Ettinsmoor is a great and mysterious place. I didn't want to risk bringing you."

"But you were willing to risk the neck of the High King?" Edmund asked dryly.

"Whose else?" Peter asked. "Would I ask any man to do something I would not do myself? There are people in Narnia who would ride off a cliff if I told them to. It's about time that I rode off the cliff to see what it's like."

"I'll come along as a bodyguard, your majesty," Edmund said.

Peter looked up, but could not read his brother's expression in the darkness, "You won't consider going back?"

"Not a chance."

"Then I'll be glad to have you."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Now the adventure is met and the journey can begin! (I love journeys...)

Over the past few days, I've been rereading one of my old stories (specifically _The Horse That Stole the Boy) _and I have to admit that I'd forgotten how elaborate the thing was. I was totally confused (admittedly, I started at the end and worked my way back); but I hope that my powers to make you laugh haven't gotten rusty since then. It was great re-reading all your reviews and I want to thank you all again for your patience and care over the past few years that I've been posting stories. It's been an amazing experience for us and you've probably seen yourselves how much our writing has grown and changed since we started. That was all due to you.

~Psyche

**Production Note:** Edmund was caught speeding. He was purportedly galloping in a trot-only zone. Charges are pending.


	3. Ye o' the Lowlands

Ye o' the Lowlands

* * *

_There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met._

~ William Butler Yeats

* * *

Peter was a gregarious soul at heart. Though he enjoyed being alone, talking to oneself becomes tiresome after a few days and Edmund, at least, could be counted on to say something unexpected. Edmund's hearing was also sharper than Peter's and having him along was a strategic improvement upon his former plan. Having two good sword arms is always better than having one.

The day after they joined forces they were riding across a great valley, or glen, as it was called in those parts. The wind tumbled down from the steep sides of the mountains and whipped the horses' manes into wild frenzies, rippling across the long grass like a great hand rippling the strings of an Aeolian harp.

A river coursed the ravine at the bottom of the glen and though it was not deep, both Peter and Edmund knew at once that it was the Shribble. It was a homely and commonplace river and the horses splashed through it with no trouble, but when they pulled up on the other side, they knew that it, like a silver thread, was stretched taut across the boundary that marked the end of the known world.

What was beyond was relegated to folklore and legend.

"It's a queer place," Edmund remarked, looking up towards the mountains that rose jaggedly against the sky like the backs of whales frozen in time. Compared to them, the steep sided hills of Narnia looked like meandering ridges made by the waves at a beach.

The mountains had drawn the clouds around them like tattered capes of white. They were magnificent and wonderful and entirely strange. Their weird and wonderful outlines looked like something that belonged in a fairy story, as if some great beast had drawn its claws across the land, leaving fantastic shapes in their wake.

"Of course," Peter added. "We're in a fairy story ourselves, so it's only natural."

They rode all day before they came to a habitation. They saw the shaggy, red haired cattle first, that turned to look at them fiercely, their horns curving menacingly from their heads. Then, as they topped the crest of a hill, they saw a small stone and white-washed cottage, nestled among sheep folds, near a field of oats, still green.

"We'll try there," Peter said, swinging his horse around.

"What are you looking for?" Edmund asked, turning after him.

"The chief of the clan."

"Which clan?"

"Which ever one it is."

"Look, Peter, let me do the talking," Edmund said, nudging his horse even with Peter's. "You're always bound to muddle things."

As they approached the cottage, the whole male half of the family turned out, armed with pitchforks. There was a long, dour father and his three long, dour sons.

"Good morning to you, friends," Edmund called, pulling up his horse.

They said nothing.

"We're searching for your chief," Edmund added.

The father and his three sons might have been stone for amount of answer they made.

"We've been traveling a long way," Peter said. "And were hoping you might point us in the right direction."

"Where de ye hark froom?" the farmer asked at last and it seemed strange to Edmund that he had a voice at all.

"Narnia," Edmund said.

"Losh!" one of the sons said, startled.

The farmer glared at him to be silent, then turned again to the travelers. "Ach, but that's a muckle long way. I'd bring ye into the bothy but we've only parritch tae offer ye. A cauld wind is blawin' from the loch with e'en craping in."

"We have a leg of venison, only a day old," Edmund suggested. "We couldn't possibly eat it all ourselves."

The farmer nodded with great solemnity, then turned to his three sons, "Doon't stan' there like gowks, look tae their horses."

Peter and Edmund swung off their horses, Edmund unstrapping the haunch of venison from his saddle and handing it to the farmer.

"Forgi'e my lads," the farmer said, taking it. "They're a' leal lads, but naet used tae greetin' strangers. Come, then, and sit by the ingle."

The door beam was low, through the farmer and his three sons were quite tall. As Peter stooped to step into the room he saw a small, neat woman, watching him with large eyes. Her daughter was beside her, staring fixedly at the floor.

"Look, mither at what they gied us," the farmer said as he followed Edmund into the room.

Dinner was meager, but the company was fine. The venison vanished in short order into the stomachs of the three great sons and they looked around eagerly for more. At last, the farmer, with great deliberation, filled his pipe and sat back to look at them.

"Where de ye gang?" he asked. "I ken well ye must be lairds."

"Why would you think we were lords?" Peter asked looking up.

"Only the Mormaers can own a hound such as that," he said, gesturing to Archie, the wolfhound, where he sat by the door.

Peter's eyebrows shot up, "Only earls, hey?"

"Ye're not aquent with the hieland, then?"

"I'm afraid not," Peter said. "Our quest is to find your clan chief, whoever he may be."

"He is Alisdair Mor," the farmer said. "Of Coinnich. As bonny a chief as we ever had."

"Which direction does he lay?" Edmund asked.

"Stands more like," the farmer said with a laugh. "He stands a heid taller than moost men."

"Does he now?" Peter asked.

"Ye must gang north-west; his seat lies in Loch Duich, coming out o' the coast. If ye keep tae the coast, you'll coome tae it."

"Thank you," Peter said.

"Aye, well, you've nae need for thanks," the farmer said modestly. "But I will offer a warnin' if I may, te ye o' the Lowlands?"

"Of course," Peter said.

"Beware o' the kelpies. They live in burns and lochs; they are braw horses, but they'll pull ye under if ye goo tae them." The farmer said with a shudder, then added. "Those of Clan Hross are nae friends of ours. Keep well away fro' them."

"We'll bear it in mind," Peter said seriously.

"Any other advice for ignorant wanderers?" Edmund inquired.

"Aye, there's one thing more," the farmer said. "Beware of Will o' the wisp, if you should happen to see licht after a muckle stawrm, doon't follow it. It will lead ye tae your deeth."

* * *

Cleaning up after a Summer Festival is always tiring work, especially when the Squirrels tried to help and ended up throwing decorations at each other and making more work for everyone else. The talking Hounds had to be kept from underfoot and the Rabbits were shedding.

Lucy didn't like cleaning up after the festival. It spelled the end of summer, the end of Dances in the evening light, the end of the Faeries singing in the Great Hall and the end of Feasts in the garden under the Magical glow of lanterns.

As she stood there on the covered balcony and the light slanted in golden rays, filtering through the atmosphere and shimmering in the leaves outside the windows, she could just see that the town green was being tided up after the fair and Lucy sighed, still remembering the knights Peter and Edmund had unhorsed in the jousts. In her mind's eye, Lucy could see purple flowers, the way the light danced on water, yellow orchids and the sweet, tawny crust of an apple pie baked at the fair in the town square…but it was all over now and the time had come to fold up the magic and pack it away in boxes for next year's revels.

"Lucy!" Susan's voice called and Lucy looked down to see her standing in the courtyard in the sunlight as a whole cavalcade of talking mice dragged out carpets to beat the dust out of them.

"What are you doing up there?" she called again, her hands on her hips. "We have things to do!"

Lucy waved with half a grin, "I'm coming!"

She lingered a little longer in the sunlight, before she went down the stairs, passing two molemaids dusting the hallway and the mice hauling the carpet up the stairs.

"A little more to the left, a little more to the left!" shrill voices squeaked through the air as the carpet rushed past at a fearsome speed. Lucy jumped to one side just before it collided with her legs and watched as it flew down the hall. Disaster struck when it ran into the wall; mice flew everywhere and the carpet collapsed in a heap.

"You have something planned, don't you?" Lucy said when she finally reached the courtyard.

Susan spun around to look at her, her dark eyes laughing. Her hair was tied up with a cloth, but wisps were flying loose everywhere, giving her the appearance of an untidy dryad.

"Why yes," Susan said, putting an arm around Lucy's waist, "I _did _have a rather good idea."

"And what is that?" Lucy asked doubtfully, strongly suspecting it had something to do with waxing the Throne Room floors.

"It's high time we aired out Peter and Edmund's rooms," Susan said, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Have you seen what a state they're in? The pictures are all crooked, the furniture is dusty and I don't even want to speculate about what's stashed under Peter's bed-"

"My dear sister," Lucy said, holding up her hand. "You don't have to defend yourself to me. _I_ think it's a splendid idea."

"Anyway," she added a moment later, "it serves them right for going off without me."

"Well…well," Susan said stoutly, though she was beginning to have qualms. "Let's go do this thing."

"I'm right behind you," Lucy said with a sly grin.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

We've been seeing creatures of all sorts now that spring is properly on its way. Probably for many of you in other parts of the world, you have flowers blooming and a warm sun shining, but we, here, don't even have leaves on the trees yet.

Not long ago, we had a herd of five deer on our lawn, chowing down on our plants (what there was of them) and shortly after, we saw a fox trot down the driveway with the greatest majesty. He stopped at the end, looked both ways, then took a right as if the road had been designed as a fox super-highway.

Now, a note on this story. The misspellings in the farmer's vocabulary are all deliberate. I was always impressed by the Scots-English in Robert Lewis Stevenson's writing and wanted to try my hand at it myself. Hopefully it's not too indecipherable…there will be more before the end.

~Psyche

**Blog:** We posted a post about Roman architecture on our blog, just in case you were interested.

**Production Note:** Peter slipped off during writing and entered a tournament. Unfortunately, he was captured and held for ransom and our insurance went up because he refused to use a stuntman. We're still paying it off…but Peter says it was worth it.


	4. The Will of Man

The Will of Man

* * *

_Each man is the architect of his own fate. _

~ Appius Claudius

* * *

The next morning, they departed from their hosts after saying farewell.

"A braw lammas day tae ye, too." The farmer added just before they were out of earshot. Peter waved.

"Lammas day?" Edmund asked, glancing at Peter.

"The last day of Greenroof," Peter said. "We're well into summer, aren't we?"

"I suppose we are," Edmund said, then laughed. "I think very well of our host, but he can keep his parritch. The more talkative he got the less I understood him; I was beginning to wonder whether he was speaking the same language at all."

"We'll have to learn, I think," Peter said. "But doon't worry, me braw, wee brother, we'll figure it out somehow."

"Aw, put a cork in it," Edmund muttered.

"Right-o, baby brother," Peter said.

"Well, we're off to find Alisdair Mor," Edmund said, then paused. "That begs the question; what does 'Mor' mean?"

"It means 'great'," Peter said. "If they tacked that on the end of his name he must be a near giant."

"I hope he's a friendly one."

If Ettinsmoor could have been rolled out flat and all the mountains taken out, it would have been larger than Calormen. As the horses reached the crest of one ribbed hill, there were only more ahead. Lochs glittered blue under the sky, deep in the valleys between the braes that seemed to plummet down beneath the waves. Even the clouds couldn't rise above the jagged hills. They hung like mist above the lochs and beyond them, the hills were silhouetted, their wild shapes both strange and beautiful, rusty sided with the rampant heather.

The place was beautiful, more beautiful than anything, yet it was frightening as well. There was fear streaming through the empty silence, as if there was a secret held in her palm.

The horses were skidding down a brae, through the bracken, snorting with indignation when they came to a small aspen wood. The trees were very young and widely spaced and their small golden leaves fluttered softly in the wind that was forever coming over them like the mountains breathing.

It was there that they saw the three women.

They were old, dressed in gray, sitting on stools under the aspen leaves. One was slowly winding a thread around a ball, while the woman next to her as quickly unwound it. The last held a heavy pair of sheers, poised to cut the thread.

Peter dismounted and Edmund followed his example as they approached them.

"Greetings, travelers," the first woman spoke.

"Greetings to you, ladies," Peter said, sweeping a gallant bow.

Edmund watched them sharply, his eyes running over their tattered clothes, their twisted hands and the shining thread that ran between them.

"May I inquire what you are doing?" He asked at last.

"We are working," the woman replied.

"So I see."

"Perhaps you do not see."

Edmund's eyebrow rose slightly.

"It is wound, it is measured, it is cut. This is the thread of fate, these are the sheers. It is as long as it is. No matter what you do, you cannot make it longer, nor can you make it shorter. Aslan tells us the length, for time does not join him. He is in both the beginning and the end."

"We do not fear death," Peter said.

"Neither should you," she replied. "But you will look him in the face when all is done."

"What can we do if we are forever bound by the thread of fate?" Edmund asked. "Why should we bother doing anything if it's going to happen that way anyway?"

"You are not prisoners of fate, you are only prisoners of your own minds," the woman answered. "Never give up. Strive for the future, but live your lives as if you would die tomorrow. Remember, upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all."

Edmund glanced at Peter and met his eyes. They both seemed quite as puzzled.

"Why are you telling us this-"

Edmund stopped abruptly as he turned back to them and his jaw sagged. Peter gasped beside him.

"They're gone!"

The aspen grove was empty and silent, hung with mist that crept along the ground. Only a ball of shinning thread lay among the leaves on the forest floor. Edmund stooped to pick it up, looking at it. Peter shrugged and Edmund slipped it into his pocket.

* * *

It wasn't until that morning that Susan and Lucy found the time to put their schemes into action.

For some strange reason, they started tiptoeing in the hallway that their brothers' rooms opened onto. There were great tapestries lying silent against the walls, the lords and ladies riding out on hunts, watching them as they slipped past. At last they came to the door of Edmund's rooms.

It was a great door, beautifully carved with a unicorn, and their eyes spiraled up the horn. Vines hung heavy in the wood, curling tendrils around the fine iron work of an intricate lock.

"Do you know the password?" Lucy asked softly. "He's always changing it."

"No," Susan said. "Bother these dwarfin locks."

They looked at the door for some time as the light from the window played along the carvings, spiraling down the channels of letters entwined in the vines.

_Only ask._

"We want to be let in," Susan said. "For goodness sakes, Edmund!"

As they watched, the letters wobbled and slipped over each other as if the wind were blowing them. Susan and Lucy watched as they tumbled into new positions, marching up to form a new line of words.

_What walks on four legs when it is young?_

"Of course it would be a riddle," Lucy said impatiently. The letter hastily reassembled themselves.

_Two when it is in the prime of life…_

"Think, Lucy, think!" Susan exclaimed. "I feel I know this one!"

…_and three when it is old._

"How many guesses have we got?" Lucy asked.

_Only one._

"Four legs when it is young…two in the prime of life…and three when it is old," Susan said under her breath.

"Oh! Yes!" Lucy exclaimed. "I know! _Us, _of course! When we are babies, we toddle about on all fours, when we are grown up, we walk on two legs and when we are old, we hobble around with canes. It's people!"

There was a moment of silence, then, quietly, they heard a soft click and watched the mechanism of the lock begin to turn, burning light. Susan reached out a tentative hand and gently pushed open the door.

"Right," she said, her voice hushed, "Here it goes."

They stepped inside a hallway, treading softly on the deep rug and looked through the opened door that led into Edmund's bedroom. Susan knew it would be neater than Peter's, but she wasn't prepared for what she saw. Somebody (no names will be mentioned) had pulled all his clothes out of the wardrobe and dumped them on the bed with all the signs of very hasty packing and Susan's sharp eyes noticed the dust bunnies on the floor…but even that didn't match the windows.

"What…did he do?" Lucy gasped, frozen in the middle of the room. Susan came up short, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide.

As Susan neared the bay window that looked out over the garden, she saw that the glass had been completely written over with a white wax pencil. Equations, trigonometry, mental notes, differential equations, discrete mathematics….A recipe for buttered eggs.

"Buttered eggs?!" Susan gasped. "He could have asked me if he was in doubt…and you _don't _put chili powder in buttered eggs!"

They had a strange feeling that they were somehow invading as they circled around the room, looking at the oddments Edmund had lined up neatly everywhere. But for the exception of the clothes on the bed, everything was very orderly, if a little dusty. There were paintings on the walls of faraway places; one wall of bookshelves; ornamental shields from beyond Calormen, further south than they had ever been.

There was a row of ivory elephants on one of the bureaus and tiny blown glass animals; a dolphin, a bear, a cross-eyed elephant, a shark and a hippopotamus.

"What's this?" Susan's voice, which had been hushed before, now hardened. Lucy whirled around to see Susan standing with her hands on her hips, looking up at a bare patch of wall. Several throwing knives were stuck in it.

Lucy fought against a smile as Susan fumed, "Looks like target practice," she suggested.

"He has no right to throw knives at a wall!" Susan cried, waving her hand emphatically at the knives as if she expected them to hop down and run away in submission. "This is unacceptable!"

"I agree," Lucy said. "What shall we do about it?"

"I'll have to talk to him when he gets back," Susan said firmly, looking around. "We'll dust the room and beat out the rugs, but we'll leave everything the way it is."

The room went through a whirlwind of cleaning, dust fogging the air. They could almost hear Edmund's voice saying, "Can't clean it; it raises the dust." Lucy couldn't help laughing.

"I can't _wait_ to tackle Peter's room," she said with a wry smile.

* * *

They were riding on the pebbled shore of one of the lochs, when Peter suggested they water the horses. They dismounted and stood looking over the silver waves to the distant hills that seemed to rise from the water, crested with trees and as magnificent as the waves on a massive sea.

Edmund turned up the collar of his cloak against the wind and wrapped the edge around himself until he looked like a tall, black bat. Peter glanced at him, grinning; he knew Edmund only did that when he was in a particularly eccentric mood.

"What are you thinking about?" Peter asked at last, reaching down to rumple Archie's ears as the dog pressed against his leg.

Edmund thrust out his arm and gestured towards the panorama that stretched around them.

"It's beautiful," he said simply.

"So it is." Peter replied.

Edmund squinted into the sunlight, watching two hawks toss their prey to one another, reflected in the blue water below them. They swooped and turned effortlessly, coasting on the unseen waves of the wind, tumbling into freefalls, then spreading their wings and sliding down towards the water, only to beat up into the air again. The rabbit they had caught was thrown back and forth, always caught perfectly, like some exquisite and complex dance.

"What the deuce is that?"

Peter's incredulous voice brought Edmund suddenly back to the present. Beside him, his chestnut steed stiffened and backed away from the water, eyes wide and coat trembling. Peter's buckskin let out a long, frightened whinny.

"What?" Edmund asked sharply.

Peter had no need to tell him.

A great monster was rising out of the loch; it seemed at first to be a gigantic snake towering at least two stories high, then a broad, gray back broke the water, sending ripples leaping towards the shore. It let out a great, strange call and looked around itself with large, deep seeing eyes.

They stood and watched it, rooted in place by the sheer magnificence of the creature. It turned to look at them, but it was only a passing glance and it continued on, plowing through the waves like a sailing ship with a great mast. At last, it bent its head and dove. They had a glimpse of a short powerful tail, then it vanished, leaving nothing but ripples to mark where it had gone.

Edmund let out a sigh and realized that he had been holding his breath. They glanced at each other, unspeaking, then mounted their horses and turned away, riding up the braes towards the crest of the ridge. When they looked back, they could just see a monster shadow, gliding along beneath the surface of the loch.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

It just occurred to me that I hadn't posted a chapter for a while. So here is one. Hopefully it's the right one. Lammas Day is actually August 1st. But the only Narnian month I'm familiar with is 'Greenroof'.

**Blog: **

I've done a blog post about what real Medieval Knights would have worn, wielded and ridden. I'm not trying to be critical, but whoever did the choreography, armour design and battle design for the Narnia movies...needed help. There were several times, for example, during Peter's duel with the Witch when she could have, quite literally, sliced him in two (he might have had a chance if he'd actually used his shield, rather than flapping it around behind him).

My heart went out to both Peter and Edmund running about in their chainmail/armour set-ups (and were those chainmail leggings Peter was wearing in Prince Caspian?), because, full body armour gets heavy (especially for a small boy), unless you happen to be in possession of a horse and of course, Peter had the misfortune to lose his unicorn (which wasn't wearing a saddle?! Horses are pretty slick when you ride them bareback). His helmet was also the sort that looked like it could snap shut at any moment, which might have presented problems in the battle. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the chin strap magically disappeared and he managed to lose it part way through (I can't remember how), which, as I mentioned before, could have allowed the Witch to slice him neatly in half…or perhaps it was just to let his beautiful hair flow in the breeze.

The Narnian charge in the beginning was splendid, full of fluttering banners (and I saw some spears, which was nice), but whoever decided to give up the high ground ought to have his head smacked (yes, I'm looking at you, Peter). The whole battle would have been much better if everyone had stopped charging the Witch and just found a good bowman with an arrow (are you listening, Edmund?). The chainmail dress was very pretty, I'm sure, but it didn't protect the Witch in any places that mattered.

~Psyche the Disgruntled

**Production Note:**

Susan was so upset by the mess she found in Edmund's room that she insisted on bringing in the vacuum cleaners. Lucy was all for remodeling completely. Edmund has not yet released a statement, but Peter is purportedly giggling in a corner.

**Next Chapter:** In which Peter does something Stupid and Edmund has a Rather Bad Time.


	5. Spirit Horse

Spirit Horse

* * *

_To ride a horse is to ride the sky. _

~Author Unknown

* * *

Edmund always judged himself as the one who went off to do things without thinking about them first; but, as he stood alone in the dark rain, he wondered if Peter had actually lost his mind.

For a day, they had seen nothing but mountains and mist, tumbling away into the distance. They saw the shadow of a stag, melting into the foggy dew and they glimpsed the shaggy shape of a bear. They subsisted chiefly off rabbits and moorfowl that lived amid the bracken, and watched the clouds piling in the distance where they knew the sea lay.

"Storm brewing," Peter had commented.

They spoke little, only enjoying each other's company as they rode north-east, watching the sky glow with evening light and the sun, sinking down to quench its fire in the crimson sea. They pitched their camp under the branches of a rowan tree, not far from a silver tarn that lapped against the brackened shore.

Edmund drove a spit through the bird that was delegated for supper and Peter broke out his arrow making supplies, sinking down to turn them out by feel alone, next to the glow of the campfire.

"I don't suppose you'd like to trade jobs, would you?" Peter asked.

"What? Let you cook?" Edmund snorted. "You don't cook; you burn."

"I can cook," Peter exclaimed, looking deeply hurt. "You jump to conclusions too quickly; that fiasco with the pie was just one time."

Edmund's eyebrow crept up, "What about the cake? It took us weeks to get it off the curtains and don't even get me started on the popovers…"

"All right, all right!" Peter exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "I can't cook…"

Edmund smiled a cat's smile.

"…When you're around goggling over my shoulder," Peter finished. "I do perfectly well when you're not watching."

"Well, I can't comment," Edmund said. "Seeing as I wasn't there. But in my experience-"

"Ed, _look!_"

Peter was staring, wide eyed. The arrow had dropped unnoticed from his hand, the head gleaming with cold fire. Edmund looked up sharply, reaching quickly for the hilt of his sword, then he paused.

The tarn was next to them, moonlit mist rising from the surface, spiraling silently into the cool night air, drifting past the stars. A tall shadow stood in the mist; the shadow of a magnificent horse.

It was the most beautiful horse they had ever laid eyes on. Jet black from pricked ears to feathered fetlocks, the creature turned to look at them with an elegant head, muscles rippling under his powerfully arched neck. The dark, thick forelock fell, tumbling between his ears, half covering his dark, wise eyes.

Edmund glanced up and realized that Peter had risen and was standing as if transfixed.

"Tell me, Ed," he said softly, "Have you ever seen such a beautiful animal?"

"It's a Kelpie," Edmund said sharply.

"A Kelpie… a water horse, as deadly as it is beautiful. What a horse."

"Yes, indeed." Edmund replied, standing himself.

"You know, Ed," Peter said, glancing at him. "I've heard stories. People have actually tamed them."

"Many died in the attempt." Edmund replied.

"So they did," Peter said, shaking himself as if he had forgotten.

The kelpie lowered his head, moonlight in his heavy mane as he stepped slowly out of the shallows and moved up onto the bank to graze. Then the clouds drifted overhead, sweeping over the face of the moon and dousing the light. The kelpie was once again a dark, elegant shadow.

"I felt a raindrop," Edmund reported, but Peter hardly seemed to hear him.

"Let's get on with supper," he added a moment later.

"You always are…" Peter said absently.

"Always are what?"

"Hungry."

"Quite right," Edmund said. "And so are you, if I remember correctly."

"Aye," Peter said and knelt down again next to the fire.

Edmund breathed a sigh of relief and dropped down to turn the spit. He noticed with disgust that one side had been burnt.

"That's your fault," he pointed out, accusingly.

The shadows were silent.

Edmund looked up sharply, the bird forgotten. More rain drops were falling, sizzling in the fire, but he hardly noticed them as he bounded to his feet and looked away across the tarn where the shadow of the horse spirit stood.

"Peter!" he shouted, his voice muffled in the mist.

Then he saw him, another shadow like the kelpie, moving through the foggy dew. In agony, Edmund closed his eyes; in agony he opened them again. He felt frozen in place, he couldn't shout or move.

The two shadows drew near each other, both dark, both tall. One hand outstretched. The kelpie's beautiful head reached out and for one moment, they seemed to touch and meld.

Then Peter lunged forward, grabbing the heavy mane and vaulting up on the damp, powerful back of the horse spirit.

It was only then that Edmund could run and he ran as hard as he could. He saw the kelpie rear, its shrill, terrible call echoing through the mist. For one wild second, the moon sliced through the clouds and lit the creature's mane as it lifted, throwing drops of water like diamonds to join the stars in the night sky, then fall like rain to the earth. It was leaping like a frenzy, screaming, muscles bunching, yet Peter clung to its back as if he had grown there.

"Peter!" Edmund cried. "Let go!"

But it was too late.

With one last, wild whinny, the kelpie leapt forward, arcing through the sky like a curve of jet to plunge into the depths of the lake and vanish in a massive sheet of silver water.

There was silence.

Edmund stood on the shore, stunned, staring at the place where Peter had disappeared. It had happened too suddenly…too suddenly.

The rain, which had been caught up in the clouds until now, let loose in a wild torrent, slamming down against the ground, drenching Edmund through and shirring the surface of the tarn. He couldn't see anything, the lake had vanished in the onslaught and when he looked back, he couldn't even see the light of his fire. He stared around himself, trying to peer into the darkness.

Something large touched his leg and he started, leaping backwards. Then he saw that it was the dark form of Peter's hound, Archie, come to see what he was doing. Edmund hardly _knew_ what he was doing as he knelt down and wrapped his arms around its neck and buried his face in the coarse silver hair as rainwater trickled down his back.

"Oh Aslan," he whispered. "Grant him strength. No one can help him now."

He never knew after how long he stood there in the rain, straining to see beyond it in the blackness. It could have been hours, or just a few minutes, but he thought that the rain was slowly letting up and as he turned, he saw the small, distant light of his campfire.

That single spec of light filled him with sudden hope and he reached down once to touch Archie's head, then turned towards it and walked resolutely through the rain. The firelight was flickering, sputtering a little in the rain, but still glowing strongly.

Edmund walked and he felt the dog trotting next to him. The dog was tall, the perfect size to rest his hand on as he went. Suddenly the dog stopped and he heard faintly a low growl next to him.

"Come," Edmund said, reaching out to take the dog's collar. "We must keep on."

But the dog would not budge.

Edmund knelt down in front of him, taking the long, slender head in his hands. "We'll find him, I promise, lad."

Archie whined, leaning backwards, away from his pull.

"Come!" Edmund said sharply.

The dog jerked backwards, breaking away from him. Edmund groped into the darkness, but could not find him.

"Suit yourself!" he exclaimed angrily, turning abruptly, but as he took a step forward, the hem of his cloak was caught and tugged back so sharply he nearly lost his balance.

The dog was pulling back with all his substantial weight, struggling to keep Edmund from moving.

"This is no time for games!" Edmund exclaimed, yanking away his cloak. He heard it tear in the darkness.

He stepped forward again, half angrily and his feet sank deep into muddy water.

"What?" Edmund exclaimed.

The light of the campfire had gone, as if it had been snuffed out like a candle. No matter where he looked, he could not see it. He was nearly up to his knees in sucking mud and he knew from experience that he could not struggle or he would only sink deeper. He threw himself down on the bank, his hand groping for something to hold onto. His fingers touched the knurled bark of a tree root and he seized it for dear life, hauling with all his might.

Archie was there, whining and pawing at him, then barking when he did not get up. Edmund panted, his muscles straining. He had forgotten everything but the water and the dark shadows of bull rushes drifting before his vision.

Suddenly his collar tightened violently and jerked. He gasped for breath, striking with his free hand at the darkness and only meeting the coarse, silver coat of the hound. Archie had him by the cloak and was hauling with all his might.

Edmund choked, he couldn't breathe, his collar gripped his neck like an invisible hand. He reached out to push away the darkness that was settling inside him.

But it was coming anyway.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

It's just one of those days. One of those days when you accidentally squirt yourself in the face with an orange at breakfast. One of those days where you drop your favorite water bottle down the stairs and the cover shatters. One of those days when the $400 camera you ordered arrives with everything present and accounted for- except the battery.

It's just one of those days.

A couple of people have mentioned that it wasn't particularly brainy of Edmund to use the Sphinx's riddle for his door password. To start out, it's not the Sphinx's riddle. The riddle goes back much further than Oedipus Rex…actually, in alternate versions of the story, the riddle was different (had something to do with the sun and the moon). Edmund wasn't trying to keep his sisters out of his room and, unless scholars of Greek mythology, no one else in Narnia would know the answer (especially since most of the occupants of that green and tranquil land are four footed).

~Psyche

**Historical Note: **It's hard to believe it's been 70 years since the largest invasion in history stormed ashore in Normandy on the evening of June 5th and morning of June 6th. My great-uncle died the week before 'softening it up' with bombing raids along the French coast. He jumped clean and his parachute opened, but no one ever saw him again. Tales of bravery and courage, like those of Dick Winters, who redefined 'textbook' maneuvers when he took a battery of guns above the beaches, or of Mad Jack Churchill, who charged ashore armed with a Scottish broadsword, or Lord Lovat, who apologized for being late after battling his way through some of the heaviest fighting in history, are more than just stories of a fast distancing past...they really happened and are just as significant today as they were 70 years ago.

**Production Note: **Edmund is threatening to get a restraining order until Peter agrees to attend some remedial classes on the importance of restraint in dangerous situations.


End file.
